


(baby) maybe that matters more

by lavenderlotion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Cheek Kisses, Control Issues, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endearments, Flirting, Gentleness, Hugging, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Jealousy, Left Hand Peter Hale, M/M, Mating Bond, Peter Hale is a Softie, Possessive Behavior, Protective Peter Hale, Referenced/Implied Bullying, Scent Marking, Scenting, Season/Series 2, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Showers, Stiles Stilinski Needs a Hug, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic, hand-holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/pseuds/lavenderlotion
Summary: “Well, well, well,” drawls a familiar voice that Stiles hadn’t evenconsideredhe might ever hear again. “The token pack human, left all alone?”
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1174
Kudos: 3063





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really really don’t know??? Last night i wanted to write something & i started looking through my wip folders and i wrote this in an hour before trying my _very_ best to get this to make sense :thinking:

Stiles’ entire  _ fucking _ body hurts. 

Wrapping his arms around his waist doesn’t make it better. Hell, it pulls at his fucked up ribs in a way that makes them hurt  _ worse,  _ but at least it feels like his arms might keep his shattered heart from spilling out of his chest. Every time he blinks he sees Lydia running to Jackson. Every time he breathes, he hears her claim the power of true love. Every time his heart beats, he remembers that it worked.

He’s not even sure if that’s what’s hurting, though. 

Because every single second since it happened, he hasn’t been able to stop his mind from replaying Scott’s actions. The “plan” he’d made. The “plan” he’d never told Stiles about. The look in Derek’s eyes when Scott had used him like that. Good God, what a fucking  _ idiot. _

That’s not all, though, because Gerard’s plan is there too. His taunting voice echoes through Stiles’ mind, and he’s haunted by the way Gerard had teased him before sending electricity coursing through his veins. 

His next breath rattles out of him, and Stiles realizes he’s shivering. 

He can barely feel it over the ache of pain that’s settled across his body, but it’s there, driving the pain up even higher, more and more unbearable every second he stands there and stares at the cracked cement under his feet. He thought he was sore  _ before _ he drove through a goddamn wall, but  _ fuck, _ he’s never felt pain like this. In fact, he distantly wonders if the pain is why he’s still just... standing around. Hugging himself and staring at the floor. Trying not to fall apart. 

Then he remembers he doesn’t have a jeep to drive home in, and no one else bothered to stick around.  _ Fuck.  _

At least he doesn’t  _ think _ that anyone else stuck around, until he hears footsteps echoing through the warehouse. His heart starts racing and fear, familiar and acidic, burning along his throat, climbs up his stomach. 

The most pathetic part? He can’t even lift his head to see if it’s Gerard, back to finish him off from where he’d been left for dead. 

“Well, well, well,” drawls a familiar voice that Stiles hadn’t even  _ considered _ he might ever hear again. “The token pack human, left all alone?”

Stiles doesn’t turn his head, even though  _ Peter Hale’s _ voice is coming from somewhere to his right. Actually, Stiles can’t bring himself to move at all, now that he can feel the tremor running along his skin. 

Shivering can’t be good, can it? 

“Stiles,” Peter says, far closer. “You reek.”

The simple declaration pulls something like a laugh out of his hoarse throat. It doesn’t sound like a laugh, not really, and it burns on the way out, pulls at his split lip, and causes his ribs to ache. He tries to bite it down and trap the noise behind his teeth, but he just whimpers in pain as his teeth dig into his bottom lip. God, he’d almost been able to forget the way Gerard’s knuckles had split it open.

_ Shit, _ everything hurts so much. 

Peter comes to stand in front of him and Stiles... stares. Drinks him in. Finally finds the strength to pull his eyes from the cracked cement to track over  _ Peter Hale’s _ imposing frame. This man, the carefully put together figure in front of him, is  _ not _ the one they’d killed last year. It can’t be. The scars that had been covering Peter’s face are gone. There’s nothing but smooth, unblemished skin, broken up by a well-groomed goatee of dark hair. He’s... hell, he’s  _ handsome. _ Seriously handsome, and Stiles lets out a weak little noise of  _ something _ as he stares into Peter’s blue eyes. 

Blue eyes that get brighter and brighter until they’re glowing. 

“Who did this to you?” There’s a growl in his voice that sends a shiver down Stiles’ back but he’s... it’s not from fear. 

No. Stiles isn’t scared of Peter the way he once was. At least with Peter, Stiles always knew he was a monster. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. 

Not like Gerard. 

_ Fuck. _

Just thinking the name causes him to whimper, but the broken noise he lets out is one he doesn’t even recognize. Before he can think about it, though, it’s immediately followed by a soft sigh as the overwhelming, oppressive pain weighing him down begins to lessen, slowly, in a way that pulls his breath from his lungs until they’re burning. 

It’s only after the pain-drain has started, as his thoughts slowly start to clear from the haze of hurt they’ve been clouded in, that he realizes Peter has moved and there’s a thumb brushing across his jaw. His eyes fall to the thumb which is now holding his chin, and he gasps when he sees black lines of  _ his pain _ running up Peter’s wrist, across his thick forearm and disappearing under the sleeve of his v-neck.

A  _ very _ low v-neck, Stiles can’t help but notice. 

His mind whirls as he tries to make sense of what the hell is going on, but he’d just watched true love turn a Kanima into a werewolf, so nothing makes sense to begin with. Seems only fair that this doesn’t either. Because no matter how Stiles tries to spin his racing thoughts, the fact that Peter Hale is holding his chin and draining his pain just doesn’t compute. 

He takes a deep breath, the first one he’s been able to take since he woke up in the field behind his house keening from pain, and his knees go weak. For a split-second, he’s terrified he’s just going to crumble to the floor, but then Peter is  _ right there, _ his arms coming around Stiles’ waist and tugging him in until he’s all but lying lifelessly against his chest. A warm,  _ strong _ hand slips under the back of his t-shirt and the pain-drain starts back up until Stiles feels weightless. 

“Oh my gosh,” he breathes into Peter’s neck, pressing his split lip against his warm skin and not feeling it at all. His thoughts are still racing, but the more pain that Peter drains away, the harder it becomes to string together anything that makes sense. 

What he  _ does _ know is that he’s breathing heavily right against the hollow of Peter’s throat with his lips pressed into his most vulnerable spot, and something about it causes his heart to race. “Why... what are you doing?” he asks, even though he thinks he knows why, even half out of his mind and barely able to gather a coherent thought. 

He’s not sure he wants to admit it, though. 

“You’re very special to me, Stiles,” Peter tells him, which answers nothing and everything. If Stiles’ brain didn’t feel like mush, he’d know just what that everything was. As it is, he can’t find the words to answer, and instead makes a noise that sounds as desperate as he feels. 

Nothing has made any sense since Stiles decided he wanted to see a dead body, why the hell should this be any different? Instead of saying anything, Stiles presses impossibly closer, finding enough strength in his jelly-gone knees to press their bodies firmly together. Peter is strong as hell and Stiles is seriously glad for the supernatural strength when he lets himself go boneless with relief and Peter... keeps holding him. 

God, it feels  _ good _ to stop hurting. 

“Don’t stop,” Stiles whispers,  _ pleads, _ tucking his face more fully against Peter’s throat until it feels like he might be able to disappear inside his skin. 

He thinks, wildly, that he’d feel safe there. 

Peter’s hand drags down his back, the flat of his palm pressing gently against his skin until his fingers are toying the hem of his jeans. “Only if you tell me who did this to you.”

This time, when Stiles laughs, it holds even less humour. 

Peter’s hold tightens around the small of his back, and Stiles finally finds the strength to hug him back. It’s weak, but Peter’s holding him so securely it feels okay that he can barely manage to return the... well, the embrace, seeing as Peter’s hugging him and, if Stiles focuses on what he’s feeling, nuzzling his forehead. 

Oh gosh, is Peter Hale  _ scent marking _ him? Is Stiles  _ letting _ him?

Yeah, okay, he’s gonna have to admit to some things real soon if this doesn’t stop. 

Before he can go down  _ that _ spiral of thoughts, Peter growls lowly. “Was it Gerard?” his words are slurred together in the same way that Scott’s are when he talks around his fangs. There’s something about that, about knowing that Peter’s fangs have dropped, that makes his heart race in a good way. 

Stiles nods. Feels like throwing up. Whispers, “And Allison,” into the safety of Peter’s skin even though he feels completely terrified. 

Peter growls again, though, and somehow the edge of danger to the noise makes him feel impossibly safe. God, he’s fucked up.

Then Peter lifts him up. Stiles yelps, but Peter doesn’t seem to care as he starts walking with Stiles held in his arms, taking wide, waddling steps until Stiles can feel the cool metal of his baby against his lower back. Only then does Peter let him down and step away, but not before he makes sure that Stiles is carefully leaned back against his Jeep, his hands gently trailing down Stiles’ arms.

Without noticing his hands moving, he tangles his fingers into Peter’s shirt and holds on tightly. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he doesn’t want to let go. His eyes find the wolf’s, and they’re glowing once again. He opens his mouth, but he has no idea what he wants to say. 

“Stay here.”

Stiles shakes his head quickly, even if it makes him feel a little dizzy. He bites into his bottom lip as his heart starts racing faster than it has all night, and something that he doesn’t like starts to knot in his stomach. “I don’t...” Stiles trails off with a helpless noise when he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“There isn’t a single heartbeat other than our own close enough for it to be a threat. If I can’t hear it, it can’t get to you before I can,” Peter tells him seriously. His eyes are still glowing, and Stiles believes him even without being able to hear his steady heartbeat. Peter growls again, before he adds, “Nobody else is going to hurt you, Stiles.”

He nods his head even though he doesn’t know why he believes him. There’s something deep in Stiles’ chest that’s telling him that Peter’s telling the truth, though, and he wants to trust it. Peter seems satisfied, but before he leaves he raises Stiles’ wrist, the same one he’d grabbed all those moons ago, and presses an open mouth kiss to his pulse-point. Stiles stares, wide-eyed, as Peter carefully lowers his arm before letting go, and then he keeps staring as Peter stalks into the depths of the warehouse. 

His figure is swallowed up by the shadows, and then it’s like Stiles is all alone. 

Fuck.  _ Fuck, _ there’s no denying what that was. 

_ Oh my god, _ what the hell is he doing? 

Stiles doesn’t know. It kind of feels like he doesn’t know  _ anything. _ The longer Peter is gone the clearer his head feels even though the pain is slowly starting to creep back up. What he  _ does  _ know is that he feels safer than he has in  _ months,  _ standing in an empty warehouse, all because of the monster who started this all. But... that’s not true, is it? Even as Stiles thinks it, he realizes Peter Hale didn’t start anything, and he was never truly the monster everyone claimed him to be. 

No, the Argents started it. Peter was only finishing it. 

Time passes oddly as Stiles waits for Peter, filled with a hope that feels misplaced but takes up his whole chest. Stiles stands still and breathes deeply and doesn't shiver, thank god, but he can’t for the life of him count how much time is passing by. He taps his fingers against his legs and finds that, now that he isn’t in so much pain, his mind feels empty. He tries to catch his thoughts but they keep slipping by until it’s like his brain has been dug out and left empty of everything but the way Peter had smelt—something dark and woodsy and musky—and how warm he’d been. 

Now that Peter has left, left and might not be coming back, the cold is creeping back in, seeping in his ratty shoes and climbing up his tired legs and crawling along his aching ribs and—

Blue eyes break apart the darkness.

“Peter,” he whispers, wide-eyed, and he watches Peter emerge from the darkness, striding forward with a look on his face that twists Stiles’ stomach with something hot and heady. 

He can’t pull his eyes away—doesn't even want to—and he watches the wolf pull his shirt over his head—which  _ holy fucking Christ Stiles is so gay _ —so he can wipe the black-blood from his hands. Then, before Stiles can even process what is happening, Peter is stopping a hair-breadth in front of him and pulling him back into his arms. 

“Call me superstitious, sweetheart,” Peter begins, chuckling when Stiles lets out a weak little noise, “but I am not allowing any chances. If I can claw my way back from the dead, I am sure a hunter of Gerard’s standing can as well. You never need to worry about that bastard again.”

“Uh, yeah, about that,” Stiles begins, doing his best to string words together as his blood rages between flooding his cheeks and his dick. Peter is shirtless.  _ Peter is shirtless.  _ Holy hell. “I really feel like I’m missing a good chunk of information here.”

“I’ll explain on the drive home,” Peter says, his lips brushing Stiles’ temple. His hand slips back up under Stiles’ shirt and Stiles whimpers, pressing even closer and blocking out all the bare skin so he doesn’t do something ridiculous like pop a hard-on just because Peter’s  _ very firm chest _ is right under his cheek. 

Peter chuckles when Stiles goes limp against him, and he breathes in deeply before he hums. “Mm, sweetheart, you smell divine right now.”

“Creeperwolf,” he whispers, feeling his cheeks flush when he realizes what Peter must be smelling. Peter mock-growls at him, and Stiles mutters, “Uhm... I don’t think Rosco is going to make it home?”

“My car, Stiles. I will call to have yours collected and serviced in the morning.” Peter’s tone makes it sound like the obvious course of action—Stiles can’t help but wonder how the hell he can read the man’s tone—but...

“Oh, no, Peter I can’t...” Stiles trails off as he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his blush get even worse as he mumbles, “I gotta drive it home. I can’t afford to get it towed.”

“Why does that matter?” Peter asks as he pulls back. When Stiles finally dares a look at his face, his forehead has creased adorably. In a flash of courage, or stupidity—or, really, brain damage—Stiles reaches forward to smooth the crease out with a gentle swipe of his thumb. 

For a moment, it’s like time is standing still. Peter stares at him with electric eyes and flared nostrils as Stiles brushes his thumb across his cheekbone before he lets his hand fall to Peter’s very warm chest. After the silence has stretched on for enough erratic beats of Stiles’ heart that he feels awkward, Peter clears his throat. 

“I will be calling the service. That isn’t something you need to worry about, darling.”

Stiles... has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to say to that. Hell, he has no idea what is even going on, but it feels like something good. 

Maybe. 

Hopefully. 

“We need to find Boyd and Erica,” Stiles whispers, fear shaking his voice as he thinks of his time in the basement alongside them, “they were in the basement with me and I don’t know what happened to them.”

“Once I get you safe, I’ll see to them,” Peter tells him, and, once again, Stiles believes him. 

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why  _ anything _ in the last little while has happened, but none of it has felt wrong. Peter is staring at him like Stiles is more than just some beaten up teenager, and it feels right. It’s been so long since  _ anything _ has felt right that Stiles is willing to go with it, for now. He might be making the biggest mistake of his life, but not a single one of his friends noticed that he was hurt. 

No one asked him if he was okay. Scott didn’t come for him. 

They didn’t care. 

But Peter did. Peter stayed behind with Stiles, and he came up to him, and he noticed that he was hurt right away. He took his pain away, and then he went and made sure Gerard could never hurt him again. Stiles is still totally convinced he’s going to have nightmares for the next decade and a half, but at least he knows Gerard will never be anything more than a bad dream. 

And Peter gave that to him. Peter is the only one who noticed he is hurt and is  _ definitely _ the only one who did anything about it. 

Maybe... maybe that matters more than who Peter was. Matters more than all the things Peter has done, grieving his family and in so much pain that his final howl still haunts Stiles’ dreams. Maybe... God, but maybe all the things Peter isn’t saying, all the things that Stiles  _ knows, _ maybe they matter more than anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> kudos aren’t the same as getting a comment, not even close. so a comment, as short and sweet or as sprawling and sporadic as you can manage, would be _greatly_ appreciated! don't know what to comment? how about _”this was great!”_ or _“awesome work!”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok high-key i’ve received some of the best comments i’ve EVER gotten on this fic and i am so beyond grateful i can’t even put it into words. I took a solid 7-month break from this pairing (and, really, this fandom at large) and the reception i got for this fic has literally just filled my heart with so much joy it’s indescribable. To every single person that commented, THANK YOU. thank you so, so much. Thank you so much, in fact, that i wrote a second chapter of a work i NEVER planned on continuing when i posted it. I was happy with where this oneshot initially ended, but this got so much love i literally just _had_ to give back some of it in the form of a second chapter, so, please, enjoy <3

“My eyes are up here, sweetheart,” Peter’s voice is laced with amusement and when Stiles’ eyes finally trail up to his face, eyes clinging to his  _ very _ thick neck as they go, his lips are stretched into a smile that looks teasing. 

“S-Sorry,” he stutters, coming back to the present and realizing that the entire time he’s been thinking about whether or not he should trust Peter, he’s also been staring at his chest. Real smooth, Stilinski. “I was... lost in thought.”

Not even a second after Stiles drops his eyes to the floor out of embarrassment, Peter’s thumb is back on his chin, just like it’d been earlier. He tips Stiles’ face up and meets his eyes, before telling him, “I never said that I minded your eyes on me.”

If Stiles wasn’t already blushing, that would probably do it. As it is, his cheeks just get warmer than they already are as he stares into Peter’s eyes, losing himself in the circling bands of pale blue. Stiles isn’t totally sure how he can parse out the tone of Peter’s voice, but it sounds like he’s being teased.

“T-That’s good to know,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling silly under the heavy weight of Peter’s gaze. 

The crease between Peter’s eyebrows forms again, but this time Stiles doesn’t have the courage to smooth it out. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you, darling.” Again, Stiles doesn’t know  _ how _ he knows it, but he knows that Peter is telling the truth. It’s like he can feel the honesty twined around Peter’s words as they leave his lips, and the possibilities that come along with that leave him feeling breathless. 

Stiles shakes his head, suddenly feeling just as lost as he felt crashing through the warehouse. 

“I-I’m not upset!” his voice shakes, and he clears his throat even as he keeps his eyes locked with Peter’s, unwilling to look away and feel any more foolish than he already does. “I just... I wasn’t looking like that. I was thinking and I got lost in thought and it would be totally weird, right, to just stare at you when you’re shirtless so I totally wouldn’t do that, ‘cause that would be weird. Totally creepy of me to just ogle you and  _ I’m _ not the creepy one, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, and a smirk that sends heat swirling through Stiles’ stomach stretches across his face. “What if I  _ wanted _ you to “ogle” me?”

“Oh,” Stiles breathes out, his mouth dropping open as his eyes fall back down to Peter’s chest. There’s a scattering of freckles that he focuses on first, before letting his eyes follow the thickening of hair to the centre of his chest, eyes then sliding over to where his hand is  _ still _ pressed against Peter’s peck. He realizes with a start that he hasn’t moved it and Peter hasn’t moved, either, and almost on its own his thumb starts rubbing back and forth in slow motions. “Well if  _ that’s _ the case...”

Peter seems to preen under his gaze, his chest puffing out and looking even more impressive as Stiles watches him. His shoulders broaden as he straightens out his back and stands tall, giving Stiles a ridiculously wolfish grin. He laughs, softly, not loud enough to jostle his ribs but still holding far more humour than any laugh he’s let out all night. 

Stiles knows that they need to talk about... whatever the hell it is that’s between them, but as he takes in the easy smile on Peter’s face and the way it handsomely wrinkles the skin around his eyes, he doesn’t want to break whatever it is that’s slowly building between them. He wonders if it’s only building between them  _ because _ of what’s already there, and then wonders if it even matters. 

“You’re a ridiculous wolf,” Stiles tells him, more fondness in his voice than he’s heard from himself in... well, longer than he can remember. 

Peter nods, but he doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Eventually, his hands squeeze where Stiles had barely realized they were holding his hips, and he says, “We should go now, darling.”

Stiles nods back, fighting off a yawn as a sudden wave of exhaustion seems to wash over him. Peter obviously notices, because a smile stretches across his face. Before he has the chance to say anything, Stiles grumbles, “Don’t you dare,” and pinches his chest. 

Peter throws his head back to laugh, the move stretching his throat. Stiles giggles as well, and finds himself swaying forward to rest his forehead in the crook of Peter’s stretched neck, nuzzling the base of his throat. There are words trapped behind his teeth that he’s too scared to let out, but he’s always been one to act first and think second. His lips drag against Peter’s neck and he finds that he doesn’t have the words for what it all means, even if he knows it means  _ something.  _ He knows what it  _ might  _ mean and what he’s thinking he might actually  _ want _ it to mean, now that Peter is alive and seemingly sane and so goddamn attractive,  _ holy fucking shit,  _ but he doesn’t know what it means to  _ Peter _ and he’s... not strong enough to ask. 

Not when he isn’t totally sure what the answer is going to be. Not when he isn’t totally sure what he  _ wants _ the answer to be. 

Peter’s hands slide from his hips to the small of his back and draw him closer to hold him tight, and they spend an endless stretch of time holding each other once Stiles’ other arm slips around Peter’s side and presses against his burning back. He doesn’t want it to end. Peter is putting off so much heat that it’s sinking into Stiles’ bones and pushing away even the faintest traces of the chill Stiles only realizes he could still feel once it’s gone. 

As good as it feels, Stiles is a little terrified that he’s hallucinating the whole thing. But Peter’s skin is smooth and warm under his hands and he sure as hell wasn’t imagining the overwhelming pain he’d been in when Peter first found him. It helps. 

“My car is out front,” Peter tells him in a deep, rumbling voice that makes him feel a little light-headed. 

Actually, that could just be the pain-drain. 

Yeah, it’s probably the pain-drain. 

“Okay,” Stiles answers, lips still brushing his throat. 

Neither of them move. The longer that they stay pressed together as they are, the harder and faster Stiles’ heart beats. It feels like there is something impossibly large building in the scant space between them, thrumming up from somewhere deep in Stiles’ chest. Peter is so warm and solid that it’s impossibly easy to lose himself in the comfort that his arms are providing, making him feel safe. He doesn’t know why, but he  _ knows _ that Peter will keep him safe. 

Well, okay, he did just tear a body apart to do just that. At least, Stiles is pretty sure that’s what Peter did. There was a  _ lot _ of blood on his hands, after all. And besides, it’s not like he’s going to  _ ask _ what Peter did with Gerard’s body. 

“Home time, Stiles,” Peter says, but his lips brush Stiles’ temple and his arms tighten around his back, so it kind of diminishes the stern tone he’s using. Peter doesn’t move a muscle, the damn hypocrite, and Stiles debates calling him out on it before giving him a final squeeze. 

“Okay,” he says again, and somehow finds the strength to pull back. 

Peter is staring at him heavily when Stiles finally drags his eyes up his body. A smirk crosses his lips seconds after Stiles' stomach goes warm, arousal once again swirling around his gut at Peter’s... Peter-ness.  _ Damn, _ he’s freaking hot. 

“Darling...” there’s a teasing edge to Peter’s voice and the smile that curves around his lips looks freaking sinful. Stiles feels a very strong urge to  _ feel _ that smile for himself, and he wonders what Peter’s stubble would feel like against his face. 

Against his lips.

Oh god, is Stiles popping a boner in the middle of an abandoned warehouse?

Peter growls lowly and his eyes start to glow as they track heavily over Stiles’ frame in a way that he can  _ feel.  _ A shiver runs up his spine that he can’t control, and suddenly the playful smile is back on Peter’s lips.

“Don’t,” Stiles says firmly, feeling his cheeks get so warm that he  _ must _ be blushing as his heart trips over itself. Oh god, he’s never felt this embarrassed in his life. It doesn’t even do anything to kill his half-chub. “Just let me die of embarrassment.”

Peter’s nostrils flare and he puffs out his chest again, ridiculously, and tells Stiles, “There is nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m a very attractive man, sweetheart.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers, replaying Peter’s words to himself to make sure he actually heard them because  _ oh my god.  _ “You’re terrible.”

“Yes,” Peter tells him with a nod and a wider smile, and Stiles groans even as a laugh slips out of his throat. 

He regrets it as soon as it happens, wincing at the way it pulls at his ribs since he and Peter aren’t touching any longer. Before he has time to school his features, though, Peter is right there. He twines their fingers together and draws out the ache, and Stiles answers by letting out a soft sigh of relief. 

“Thank you.”

“We need to leave, Stiles,” Peter tells him seriously, and there’s something in his eyes that has Stiles’ heart racing. “My wolf is getting impatient.”

“Your wolf?” Stiles asks, excitement clawing up his belly even as he lets Peter lead them through the warehouse by their joined hands. His mind is feeling clearer and clearer the longer the pain’s gone, the further away they get from where Lydia confessed her undying love for Jackson, the longer he’s around Peter. “You say that like it has a mind of its own.”

“Not a mind, exactly,” Peter tells him slowly, as if he’s parsing out the words he wants to use as he’s speaking. “My wolf is a part of who I am. I am not a man and then a wolf. As a born were’, my wolf is as much a part of who I am as my human self. But the wolf is... different in the sense that it  _ isn’t _ human. I'm not a slave to the animal and the animal isn’t a slave to the man, and we both exist together.”

“So, like, right now...” Stiles trails off as his heart starts racing quickly, but he’s never been one to hold his tongue  _ or _ keep his curiosity in check, so with a deep breath, he asks, “what does your wolf want to do?

“My wolf wants to get you into our den, smother you in our scent, and lick your wounds clean.”

“O-Oh,” Stiles stutters, his brain taking the whole  _ “licking” _ thing and running with it until Peter can  _ definitely _ smell it on him. He stumbles over his own feet, thankful that Peter steadies him with the hold he still has on Stiles’ hand and even more thankful when he doesn't draw attention to it any further than a soft growl and a tightening of his fingers. “I-I could be okay with that, I think. If it would make your wolf feel better. Of course.”

“Oh, of course. That’s very generous of you, sweetheart,” Peter tells him with a chuckle in his voice. 

When Stiles darts a glance over, the skin around Peter’s eyes is crinkled with a smile, shining blue from the glow of his eyes. Well... that has to be a good sign, right? Peter  _ just _ told Stiles how well he and his wolf are synced together, so that means if his eyes are glowing, it’s definitely for a reason. Stiles is blushing like an  _ idiot, _ no doubt in his mind that his cheeks are ruddy and red, and it’s nice to know that Peter isn’t  _ totally _ unaffected. 

It... actually it’s really reassuring. Stiles may have no idea what the hell he’s doing, but from everything Derek had ever told him during the countless “integration” sessions Stiles forced upon him, Peter might not have any idea what he’s doing either. 

Not in practice, anyway. 

They turn around a final corner and step into the soft light of the moon, finally crossing out of the warehouse and... Stiles’ mind goes completely blank as he takes in the absolute sexiest car that he’s  _ ever _ seen. 

Oh my god. 

_ Oh my god!  _

Stiles has no idea why the hell he’s surprised, but his mouth drops open in shock when Peter leads him to a little, shiny silver sports car. 

“What is this?” Stiles asks, slipping his hand from Peter’s hold so he can hover them both over the hood as he stares breathlessly at the beautiful chrome plating gleaming in the night. 

“This is a car, Stiles,” Peter drones. Stiles rolls his eyes and finally lets his palms touch down on the cool metal, letting out a hiss that’s quickly followed by a whimper. “Do you need a moment alone?”

Stiles giggles at the underlying tone to Peter’s voice and when he looks over, Peter’s glaring at his car with a pout across his face that makes him look  _ cute. _ That is  _ so _ not fair. 

“Are you jealous?” Stiles teases, a blinding smile stretched across his face that almost feels foreign to him. It’s been so long since he smiled like this that he almost forgot what it feels like to have his smile stretched so wide it pulls at his cheeks. 

“Of my  _ car?” _ Peter asks him incredulously, his Hale-eyebrows rising halfway up his forehead. Stiles snickers. “Absolutely not!”

Stiles snickers again, and he reaches out in Peter’s direction. It doesn’t even take a heartbeat for Peter to be at his side, moving supernaturally fast but slowly sliding his fingers across Stiles’ palm to wrap around his wrist in a way that trips up his heartbeat. Stiles draws him in, suddenly breathless, and smiles up at him. 

“I promise you’re just as impressive as your car, jealous-wolf,” Stiles whispers, suddenly feeling out of his depth and completely overwhelmed with the way Peter’s entire  _ presence _ seems to fold around him until he’s all that Stiles can focus on. 

“I better be,” Peter tells him seriously, his eyes softening as he adds, “I did just save your life, after all.”

“You hardly saved my life,” Stiles tells him with a roll of his eyes, but by Peter’s raised eyebrow, they both know his heart skips a beat. “Thank you,” he whispers, reaching out and placing a hand on the slope of Peter’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb along Peter’s collarbone. 

He can still hardly believe that Peter is letting him do this. That Peter  _ keeps _ letting him do this. He knows what it means for a wolf to let someone at their throat. Hell, the first time he threw his arm across Scott’s shoulders after he was turned, Scott threw him to freaking ground. As he watches Peter closely, the man seems to move into it, and that... 

It just feels good, to be trusted like this. 

“I would do anything for you, my darling boy,” Peter tells him, eyes glowing and words serious and once again, he  _ knows _ that Peter is telling the truth.

Stiles ducks his head, unable to handle the weight of Peter’s eyes and the admission he’s making without saying anything at all. It feels, in a way, heavier than anything either of them has said so far, dancing around what they both know. There’s something in the way that Peter is looking at him that adds so much weight to his words. No one has  _ ever _ looked at Stiles like this, and it’s causing his heart to race and his cheeks to flush—which is becoming an annoyingly familiar feeling, if he’s being totally honest. 

Still, it’s nice. It’s nice because Stiles knows that there’s  _ something _ there. Something neither of them are talking about but have both acknowledged silently. Stiles sure as hell isn’t going to be the first one to say something about it, and he’s beginning to wonder if Peter will, either. 

He’s not even sure if he  _ wants _ Peter to say something, though. 

But it’s... as it is, it’s nice. Because he knows it’s there, and it feels like nothing but potential. So instead of saying anything, Stiles squares his shoulders and looks back up to meet Peter’s gaze. The look in his eyes hasn’t changed, not at all, and something about the way Peter’s looking at him gives him strength. 

“C’mon, big bad, take me to your den and appease your wolf,” Stiles whispers, keeping his eyes set on Peter’s when the man growls softly. 

“Stiles...” he starts, his name sounding like a warning. Stiles grins and steps back, feeling emboldened by how clear Peter has been about  _ wanting _ him, something he can still barely believe but trusts more and more each time Peter looks at him like he’s something worth seeing. 

He backs up until he’s at the passenger door, and Peter gives him a long, heavy look before moving forward. When Peter reaches for the door handle and not for him, Stiles feels a pout draw across his lips. As he climbs down onto the soft, matte leather seat, he tries to figure out just why he felt a thread of disappointment wash through him when Peter didn’t reach for him. 

That thought is moved aside, however, when Peter gets into the car. Stiles feels suddenly awkward as Peter moves into his seat, unsure of what to do with himself. He folds his hands into his lap once he’s clicked his seatbelt into place and watches Peter out of the corner of his eye. Peter, who at some point must have tucked his bloody shirt into the back pocket of his dark jeans, pulls the fabric from under him and puts it in the backseat, where Stiles realizes there’s a plastic-lined bin. 

Huh. 

That’s... not exactly comforting. 

Before he can ask about it, the car’s purring to life and Stiles once again gets distracted by such a beautiful piece of car-manship. He starts looking around the interior as Peter begins driving silently, eyes watching Peter’s hand on the gear shift and the way Peter’s forearm is flexing. 

He  _ is  _ a teenage boy, after all, and Peter is...  _ damn,  _ but Peter is seriously hot. 

They pull out of the warehouse district at a slow crawl, and Stiles' entire body sinks into the seat under him as tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding onto slips off his frame. A breath rushes out of him along with the tension, and when he chances another glance, Peter is smiling smugly at the road. 

Bastard. 

“So... how’d the whole re-aliving thing happen?” Stiles asks hesitantly. Peter  _ had _ promised him an explanation, after all. 

Peter chuckles meanly in a way that twists his voice into something cruel. Stiles’ eyes fall to his lap where his hands have tangled together. He picks at his cuticle, a nervous habit that does little to soothe the anxiety that starts strumming inside his chest. It’s easy to convince himself that Peter Hale is someone he isn’t. Stiles didn’t know him  _ before. _ All he has is a gut feeling, and while he’s always trusted his instincts in the past, maybe they’re leading him wrong now. 

God, he hopes that isn’t the case, but suddenly it’s all he can think about. 

“I’m sorry, darling.” Peter sounds sincere, and there’s that little pull in his gut that tells Stiles he is. He wants to believe it, believe Peter, so badly. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he shrugs his shoulders and tells himself he isn’t bothered when the other man sighs in response. 

“I... I had never intended on dying,” Peter tells him seriously. Stiles manages a quick glance up, and there’s more tension in his jaw than Stiles has ever seen from him. Stiles is beginning to wonder just what he’s asked, and just what Peter is going to tell him in response. “The Argents murdered my family, unprovoked. I’m sure they wouldn’t all agree, not that it matters much, but all I did was extract revenge that was rightfully mine. Kate Argent owed me her life for what she did. 

“When I first woke up from that god awful coma, I would have been happy taking my dying breath alongside hers. What you saw of me... I was feral, Stiles. A wolf without a pack is merely an Omega, lost and alone with nothing tethering them to their humanity.  _ That’s _ when they become a slave to the wolf, even a born were’ like myself. An Alpha is even worse, even more dangerous, if they have no one. I’m sure you’ve wondered why I bit Scott. He wasn’t the one I was aiming for.” Stiles sucks in a sharp breath at such a clear declaration of  _ something. _ Peter looks over at him briefly but his eyes, glowing electric blue in the dark, return to the road. 

“But by the time it had all come to an end, that wasn’t still the case. There was something I wanted to live for.” 

“Peter,” Stiles breathes, his voice shaking. Peter rolls to a stop at a stop-sign, and turns to look at Stiles heavily. His heart starts racing as he waits for Peter to  _ finally _ put words to what’s between them, to what’s twisting Stiles’ heart around until all it wants and all it knows is  _ Peter. _

But he doesn’t say anything, and Stiles’ heart just keeps racing. 

“When my family was alive, I worked as the Left Hand to my Alpha. I was an... enforcer of sorts. Playing a political game with other packs, and when necessary, acting as a protector. There were many tricks I’d learned during my time, one such trick being a ritual I’d always kept close to my chest, just in case, though I wasn’t ever sure it would work. There were so many unpredictable pieces to it, things I could only set up so well. Given, I hadn’t planned on Derek slashing my throat out, either, but alas.” Peter takes a deep breath and lets it out on a growl. Stiles  _ yearns _ to comfort him, and the sensation is so strong it sends him reeling. They each suck in another, stuttering breath at the same time, and then Peter says, “But I have unfinished business I plan on attending to, and not even death will keep me from it.”

His eyes, once again, slide over to Stiles heavily as he says that. Stiles sees it, because he’s staring at Peter closely and watching every shift of his face—and his neck and his shoulders and chest and abs—so he sees Peter’s expression go tight when his eyes return to the expanse of black road in front of them. 

He can’t mean anything else. He may not have said the word Stiles has been waiting to hear, but...

Stiles swallows heavily as the realization settles like stone in his gut. He’s been right. He  _ has _ to be right. After everything that Peter has said and all the things he  _ hasn’t _ said, there’s no other answer. 

He... doesn’t know if he  _ wants _ to be right, though. Being right seems like an entire other world of crazy. He’s barely handling the supernatural as it is, and he’s only connected to it through his diminishing friendship with Scott. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to handle a closer,  _ stronger, _ connection. At the same time, though, a small part of him says that’s just what he needs. Says that he’s been struggling  _ because _ he’s only been straddling the line, held at a distance by Scott and his ideals. 

Maybe all he needs  _ is _ to be closer. 

“Are we ever going to talk about this?” Stiles’ voice is a weak whisper that he can’t seem to make any stronger, not with the way his heart is racing and his hands are shaking and  _ everything _ feels so big. 

Peter raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t turn to him, keeping his eyes on the road. “Do you  _ want _ to talk about it, sweetheart?”

Stiles hums to make it clear he’s heard Peter, but he still doesn’t know. He doesn’t say anything right now, but he reaches out and grabs Peter’s hand from the gearshift even though it pulls at his ribs. Stiles laces their fingers together and then covers the back of Peter’s hand, cradling it between both of his own as he drags it into his lap. He looks down at their hands and the contrast between them, and wonders. 

He wonders what the pull in his gut means.  _ Is _ it instinct, guiding him to trust Peter for some ungodly reason? Is it something more? The thing they haven’t talked about? The thing Stiles is counting on being true. God, he feels like an idiot for not putting more thought into it before now, but seeing as Peter had been  _ dead _ at the time, he hadn’t thought to do much with Derek’s information. Why would he? It wasn’t like it mattered what a bite to the inner-wrist meant when the dude that wanted to bite you wasn’t even alive anymore. 

Now, it feels like it matters more than anything else.

“I don’t know,” he admits, heart tripping over itself. He clenches his hands around Peter’s tightly, who squeezes back comfortingly. A few lines of black start lazily moving up Peter’s forearm, and Stiles relaxes back into the leather seat with a sigh. 

“That’s alright, darling. We should get you cleaned up and rested before we have that conversation.”

“That sounds sensible,” Stiles admits, squeezing Peter’s hand again. His heart skips a beat and nerves flood his stomach as he asks, “Peter?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Thank you.”

Peter sends him a smile and it’s... soft. Somewhere around the edges, in the lines crinkling the skin around his eyes, there’s something so  _ soft _ that Stiles can’t miss it. 

And it’s directed at  _ him.  _

“Like I said, I would do anything for you, my darling boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it, and please, i would _love_ to hear what you thought of it so, so much! It might even push us to a third chapter ;) let me know what you liked, what you WOULD like, if i chose to continue this!!! 
> 
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> kudos aren’t the same as getting a comment, not even close. so a comment, as short and sweet or as sprawling and sporadic as you can manage, would be _greatly_ appreciated! don't know what to comment? how about _”this was great!”_ or _“awesome work!”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THERE'S MORE! chapter three was originally twice this long... so i cut it in half, which means i was able to post this much earlier than planned :D i hope you enjoy!

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks as they drive by his house without stopping. 

“Your father isn’t home,” Peter tells him simply, like it’s an answer, but to Stiles it sounds more like an accusation. 

He pulls his hands from Peter’s, angling his legs towards his car doors as he turns to look out his window, hoping to hide the hurt look he can’t keep from his face. He doesn’t like what Peter’s tone is saying, but even more than that he doesn’t like that his dad  _ isn’t  _ home. The supernatural has become this impossible-to-cross chasm separating the close bond Stiles has had with his dad ever since he got sober.

Not even a year ago, Stiles could have gone to his dad for  _ anything. _ They spent Sunday nights together, cooking dinner and watching trashy reality TV after Stiles had spent Saturday with Scott and Dad spent it at work. On days he didn’t have lacrosse practise after school, he’d stop at the station to bring Dad a decaffeinated coffee and say hi to the other deputies, and he’d bring Dad dinner whenever he worked a double.

Then Scott got bit by a rabid Alpha—Stiles can barely think of the man beside him as the same creature that terrorized him and his friend so many months ago—and Stiles had to start lying. He couldn't tell his Dad about  _ anything _ that was happening. He couldn’t tell his dad how scared he was. How much it terrified him to find out that  _ monsters _ were real. He couldn’t tell him about how worried he was that he was going to  _ die _ or how worried he was that the Alpha was going to hurt someone he cared about. He couldn’t tell him why he was sneaking out and sneaking in and why he wasn’t ever home. 

Stiles couldn’t tell his dad  _ anything _ and that drove a wedge between them that Stiles didn’t know how to get rid of. Lies spilling on top of lies until it felt like there was a whole _ ocean _ of secrets. Stiles didn’t see a way to go back. He didn’t think he  _ could _ go back, at least not to how they used to be. Not without Dad knowing. 

Not when the supernatural is such a big part of his life. When it’s a part of his life that’s only growing.

“Darling, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Peter says quietly, shocking Stiles out of his wandering thoughts and back to the moment at hand. There’s something apologetic to his voice that he can feel deep in his chest, where a fledgling little thing is growing the longer he and Peter are together. “I don’t know how safe your den is, but I know  _ my _ den is warded so tightly not a single supernatural being could cross the threshold without my permission, and that the building’s security is more than sufficient to handle any unwanted humans.

“I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Stiles looks at Peter from the corner of his eye and aches at the pinched expression crossing the wolf’s face. Stiles wants to apologize for jumping to conclusions but he... well, Peter wasn’t wrong. 

“I... I had to tell him that it was the other lacrosse team. That they kidnapped me because I scored the winning goal,” Stiles whispers, feeling something in his heart twinge as he remembers the way Dad had looked when he first got home. He hasn’t seen his dad look like that since they lost Mom. “He’s probably at the station. I refused to file an official report, and I know it really upset him.”

“Why did you tell him that?” Peter asks, and this time his voice holds nothing but careful curiosity. Stiles looks over at him quickly, and even though he’s focused on the road, there’s a crease between his eyebrows. 

Stiles turns back to the road as he tries to gather his thoughts, but not before taking Peter’s hand in his and lacing their fingers back together. He can’t be upset at Peter for wanting to keep him safe. Hell, the fact that Peter wants to take him home  _ because _ it’s safe makes something soft and warm unfurl in the centre of Stiles’ chest, blooming under his skin. 

“He doesn’t know and it’s... kind of a sore subject, I guess.” Stiles still can’t bring himself to speak above a whisper. Peter squeezes his hand, which sends warm comfort racing across his skin. “We used to be really close but... I have to lie to him so much. He’s the Sheriff, ya know, so he usually knows when I’m lying, too. And—back when my mom died,” Stiles starts, wondering why the hell he's even still talking but finding himself unable to stop, “we had a hard time.  _ Dad  _ had a hard time. So... when he got b-better, we got super close.” 

Stiles takes a deep breath and tries to convince himself his chest doesn’t hurt so much. “We... aren’t as close anymore.”

Peter doesn’t say anything right away, which a part of Stiles is glad for. He feels vulnerable in a way that makes his stomach feel like it’s dropped right out of him. He wants to cross his arms across himself and hold himself together, but Peter’s fingers are wrapped around his own and he can’t imagine pulling his hand away. Stiles hears the deep breath that Peter takes and waits. 

“Why haven’t you told him?” Peter asks, an edge to his voice Stiles isn’t sure he’s ever heard before, not exactly. Stiles thinks it should sound curious, leading, but Stiles catches an undertone of  _ danger  _ to Peter’s voice. 

It makes Stiles pause. He squeezes Peter’s hand tightly and realizes he doesn’t feel unsafe, not even a little bit. The way Peter’s hand is wrapped around his own feels like safety in itself. He might be crazy for thinking it, but there’s not a single part of him that’s worried Peter might hurt him. 

“Derek told me I couldn’t tell him. That it wasn’t safe for humans to know,” Stiles whispers, looking down at where Peter’s hand is wrapped around his own and tracking all the differences he can make out. 

He runs the edge of his thumb along the length of Peter’s own. The skin is smooth, not rough and cracked like the way Stiles’ gets if he forgets to use lotion at night. He knows it’s probably because of the whole super-healing thing, but something about it makes him yearn for...  _ fuck, _ he doesn’t even know. 

“How in heaven’s name could it be unsafe for him to  _ know?”  _ Peter’s voice is dripping with disbelief. He sounds shocked, and not in a good way. When Stiles chances a glance over, Peter’s eyes are creating a bright glow that catches on the high-points of his sharp cheekbones. He takes a deep breath, and his growl rattles through the car. “I’ll be having a word with my nephew about his idiocy. We can tell your father together, if you’d like.”

“There’s a hell of a lot to tell him, isn’t there?” Stiles snaps without meaning to, without  _ wanting  _ to, the words slipping out past his teeth before he can bite them down. 

He focuses his gaze back on their hands. Peter hasn’t let go, despite the way Stiles just acted. He doesn’t have it in him to look back up and see what Peter’s face looks like, and he keeps his eyes on the road as they drive through what Beacon Hills considers a “downtown”—just a few streets lined with shops—and holds his breath.

Stiles doesn’t mean it the way it comes out, but... he can’t help but think of all the things neither of them is saying. The things they both know are there. The thrumming in his chest. It’s hard to just push it aside, even though Peter said they should talk about it later. It isn’t that Stiles  _ wants _ to talk about it now, he just—well, he wants to know. 

He even thinks he’s ready for it, whatever the answer is. 

“Stiles... let’s not have a conversation you’re not ready for,” Peter tells him snidely, more snidely than Stiles thinks his comment calls for, considering Peter’s the freaking werewolf that’s  _ causing _ the goddamn bond. 

_ “I’m  _ not ready for?” Stiles asks, incredulous, and he finally turns to look at Peter so he can show the wolf just  _ how  _ incredulous he feels. 

Peter takes a deep breath that he blows out his nose and they accelerate, a little. “Fine. That  _ we _ are not ready for.”

“Whatever,” Stiles grumbles, but he still doesn’t move his hand. 

“Darling... please don’t pout. I know we need to talk about this, but I’d rather we both be well-rested and clear-headed when we do. I am taking you to my den so I can keep you safe through the night. I will search for Derek’s teenage betas and ensure they’re safe, and I will return you home once your father is there.” Peter takes another deep breath—he’s really doing a lot of deep breathing, damn—and looks over at Stiles, briefly, to flash his eyes and reveal a smile that glints with fangs. “For now, I’d like to focus on appeasing my wolf. You did say that’s what you wanted to do, after all.”

“You’re a creep,” Stiles whispers, but his voice is so fond even he’s taken aback. Damn. 

“But I’m a handsome creep.”

“Don’t push it, mister,” Stiles tells him, narrowing his eyes at the smirk on Peter’s face and the way it flips his heart around. “But you’re right. We can talk about it tomorrow. When I’m not about to pass out from exhaustion and you’re not all... growly.”

Peter’s face turns to his immediately, eyes boring into him and tracking so heavily over his frame that it’s like a physical touch. Stiles shivers and he squeezes Peter’s hand tightly, trying for a small smile that feels flat and insincere. By the way Peter’s frown draws down even lower, he doesn’t believe it either. 

“Good thing we’re here,” Peter whispers, and Stiles finds it harder than it should be to pull his eyes away from Peter’s glowing gaze. 

Once he does, he lets out a snort. “Where—oh. Why am I even surprised?” 

“Only the best,” Peter says, squeezing his hand before he pulls it away. 

Something aches in Stiles’ chest at the loss of contact, so he looks out his window and watches Peter drive them into the underground parking of Beacon Hills’ most expensive condo building. Stiles doesn’t even personally know anyone who lives there. While most of the residents of Beacon Hills like to pretend they live in a small town, that isn’t really the case. 

And so despite the small town mentality a lot of them have, there are tons of people who Stiles doesn’t know, even with his Sheriff dad. Most of those people probably live in this building—or one of the other few in the complex—as there is literally nowhere more expensive someone could live. 

“Don’t tell you me you live in the penthouse or something stupid,” Stiles teases, finally looking over after a few seconds of Peter not answering to find his face pinched up in, well,  _ something. _ “What?”

“You told me not to tell you,” Peter says, biting into his bottom lip as he pulls into a parking spot. 

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous. Didn’t you just get back from the dead?”

“Well, I never  _ officially _ died. Legally I was only missing, and once I was found it was fairly easy to get back into my home.” 

Stiles’ eyebrows climb up his forehead at the information, wondering how the hell he’d never found any of this out. Sure, he hadn’t gone out of his way to look for information about Peter—in fact, after Derek had told him what a bite to the wrist meant, he’d actively  _ avoided _ any and all information about Peter to the best of his ability. 

But when Scott had first gotten bitten, Stiles had done a whole bunch of digging. Into the fire, into the Hale’s. He’d literally looked into anything he could find. This... well this wasn’t something he had found. Stiles wasn’t even  _ sure _ what a penthouse would cost, but he sure as hell knew that it was outside of his and his dad’s budget. 

“How much money do you  _ have?” _ Stiles asks. It’s probably rude, but he’s too shocked to care. 

“Enough,” Peter tells him, putting the car into park and then shutting it off. The interior lights come in, and Stiles looks at Peter’s confused face with a frown. “Why do you smell so surprised?”

“I... well I guess I always figured you all lived in the preserve?” Stiles says hesitantly, worried about bringing up demons that should be kept buried. 

He’s talked a lot about himself, but he doesn’t know if Peter would be willing to do the same. Stiles has no idea how  _ any _ of this is supposed to work, and considering they still haven’t had a conversation about it, he isn’t totally sure where Peter’s at with it all, either. Maybe talking about his family isn’t something that Peter’s comfortable with. He mentioned them, a little bit, but that was to explain his wolf. Is Stiles stepping over a line he can’t see? 

A soft growl pulls him from his spiralling thoughts. He looks at Peter closely, taking in the tense set to his jaw and the way his eyebrows are pulled down low. He looks  _ angry, _ and Stiles winces. 

“Peter... what did I say?” he asks quietly, wondering if an apology will be enough and  _ really _ hoping it is. 

But Peter doesn’t answer him right away. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose, holding it for a few seconds before he lets it out. Then, he does it again. Stiles doesn’t know if he should reach out. If he should say something else. Stiles wants nothing more than to fill the silence but... maybe he just needs to give Peter time. 

He almost snorts. Patience is  _ not _ his strong suit, but for Peter... Stiles is starting to worry there aren’t many things he wouldn’t do for him. 

“I told you I was the left hand, the enforcer,” Peter says. His words slip into a growl, slurred around fangs that Stiles can see this time. “It wasn’t only politics. It meant that I did the dirty work. The work that no one else was willing, was  _ capable,  _ of doing. I worked from the shadows. If there was a threat to the Hale pack I knew about it and I  _ dealt  _ with it and—”

Peter cuts himself off with a harsh noise and against his better judgment, Stiles reaches out and wraps his fingers gently around Peter’s wrist. Peter looks back at him, shocked, and Stiles gives him the softest smile he can muster. 

Under his gaze, Peter’s entire face softens. His fangs shorten back into regular looking canines, flattening into something a little less lethal, and Stiles squeezes his wrist. 

“Being a left hand is unsavoury work,” Peter explains, something haunted in his eyes. “That meant I was faced with a certain level of... hostility from the rest of my pack. I was  _ encouraged _ by my Alpha to live elsewhere than the preserve. The Hale’s are an  _ old _ pack, one that has spanned countless generations, and my Alpha is the one who first purchased this condo.” 

Peter takes a deep breath and then tries for a smile that looks fake. With a wink, he says, “But don’t worry, darling, my name is on the lease.”

Stiles reaches out and gently cups Peter’s cheek, feeling the barest hint of stubble against his palm. He thumbs over the edge of Peter’s fake smile until it shifts into something more genuine as the tension in Peter’s frame seems to drain away. Stiles feels ten feet tall watching Peter’s eyes flutter closed and knowing that, somehow, he calmed Peter down.  _ He _ made Peter feel comfortable, just by being here. 

“You were protecting your pack?” Stiles summarizes, even if Peter didn’t use those exact words. Still, Peter nods, slowly, and Stiles feels anger rush up his throat. “That’s fucked, then. You did what you had to do to keep them all safe, and they treated you like a monster.” 

“Stiles—”

“That’s not how our pack is going to work, Peter,” Stiles vows, fully aware of what he’s saying and doing his best  _ not _ to think too deeply about the heavy implication of his words. Not tonight, at least. 

Peter, thankfully, seems to understand that. His smile goes soft, and he turns to press a kiss to Stiles’ palm. “Okay, darling. Thank you.”

Stiles nods decisively, squeezing his free hand around his thigh to keep himself from leaning across the car and kissing him. Peter’s smile is  _ gorgeous, _ Peter is gorgeous, and Stiles wants nothing more than to finally find out what Peter’s goatee would feel like against his lips, but... they have to have a conversation first. 

“Good. Now be a good wolf and bring me into your den. I remember being promised something about a shower and something else about cuddles.” 

Peter raises an eyebrow, and his smile is fond. “I don’t think I ever said anything about a shower, sweetheart.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose and sticks out his tongue playfully. “Peter, I am not  _ actually _ letting your wolf lick my wounds. That is, like,  _ so _ many levels of unsanitary I don’t even know where to start.”

Peter mutters something that sounds like _ “It’s not as unsanitary as you might think,” _ but Stiles files that away under the folder of “To Talk About Later” that keeps on growing. Stiles is not at all thinking about what that might be implying, because that is just... yeah, no, not thinking about it. 

“Uh... are you going to put a shirt on before we go inside?” Stiles asks, and in an effort to think about something else, eyes Peter’s abs obviously. Peter  _ did _ say he wanted Stiles to ogle him, after all. He wasn’t just going to do  _ nothing _ with permission like that.

“I have a shirt in the trunk,” Peter tells him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk on his lips that’s smug enough Stiles wants to wipe it off. 

“You should go put it on, then.” Stiles raises an eyebrow of his own. 

“You’re not enjoying the show?” 

“That is neither here nor there,” Stiles tells him primly, folding his hands together in his lap as he turns to look out the window. With a racing heart, he says, “But I don’t want anyone else getting one. Put a shirt on.” 

Peter growls lowly in response, and a smile curls around Stiles’ lips. “Darling...” Peter starts, but then he cuts himself off with another growl that pulls a laugh from Stiles’ lips. 

His wolf doesn’t say anything else, and gets out of the car without a word. Stiles lets out a breath as he deflates against the body-warmed leather, covering his face with his hands and letting out a hysterical sounding laugh when he realizes he just thought of Peter as  _ his. _ He  _ knows _ that Peter can hear him, but he’s doing his very best to pretend the older man can’t tell he’s currently freaking out. 

That was flirting. 

Right? 

Yeah. Yeah, for sure, that was  _ definitely _ flirting. At least...  _ Stiles _ was flirting, which means that Peter was probably flirting too. Definitely. For sure. That’s what Stiles is telling himself, anyway, as he freaks the fuck out a little bit. Oh God, what if Peter  _ wasn’t _ flirting? Would Stiles even know? Would he even be able to tell? He’s only sixteen!

... which makes him wonder how old  _ Peter _ is.

Before he can start freaking out about  _ that, _ Peter knocks on Stiles’ window and startles him so badly he jerks in shock which sends pain rushing through his body. He groans, slamming his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as his white-hot pain erupts under his skin, stealing his breath away. He distantly hears his car door open, but he can’t think past the aching in his bones.

“Stiles?” Peter asks urgently, and the  _ concern _ that Stiles can hear in his voice melts any tension he’s still holding right out of him. 

“I-I’m good,” he whispers, flopping back against the seat to catch his breath. 

Peter doesn’t say anything for a moment, which Stiles appreciates as he works to calm himself down and centre himself. There is absolutely  _ no reason _ for him to start freaking out over something that might not even matter. Despite everything that’s happened so far, the conversation they need to have... well, it could be anything. Maybe it doesn’t mean what he thinks? Maybe it does? 

For now, it doesn’t matter. 

“Sweetheart, are you ready?” Peter asks him, a worried smile on his face that makes Stiles blush. 

“Y-Yes,” he stutters, feeling ridiculous even as he reaches for Peter’s hand. 

Peter helps him out of the car, draining his pain as Stiles stands. He’s glad for it,  _ so _ glad for it after the way he’d just moved. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, managing a real smile as Peter watches him carefully. “You just startled me.”

“I am so sorry,” Peter tells him seriously, more seriously than Stiles thinks the situation warrants.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles tells him, reaching up to cup Peter’s jaw like he did earlier. “It wasn’t your fault I was spacing out.”

Peter nods, but Stiles can tell he doesn’t believe him. He... doesn’t really know what to do with that. Peter’s clearly upset because he hurt Stiles, but he  _ didn’t _ hurt Stiles. Stiles flinched because he wasn’t paying attention to what was going on, and that is  _ not _ Peter’s fault. Somehow, Stiles knows that telling him that again won’t do anything to change Peter’s mind, so he bites his tongue and instead laces their fingers together, giving Peter’s hand a tight squeeze. 

“That’s a nice shirt,” Stiles says to change the topic. He isn’t  _ lying, _ even though the shirt is just a black v-neck. 

Peter doesn’t actually answer, and instead just makes a dismissive humming noise that doesn’t do anything to make Stiles feel any better. He racks his head for ideas, and then decides to just go to the point. 

“C’mon wolf, take me to your den,” Stiles teases, and Peter growls at him with a grin. 

“You’re teasing the animal, darling,” Peter warns playfully, a grin on his face that makes Stiles’ belly feel warm. 

“I know you won’t hurt me,” Stiles says easily, with a surety he realizes he feels down to his bones as the words slip past his lips. 

Peter calls for the elevator before turning to Stiles, but when he does his face is achingly soft.

“Never,” Peter swears. 

Stiles doesn’t know how, but he  _ knows _ it’s the truth. 

Stiles’ cheeks get warm as he smiles down at his battered converse. The surety in Peter’s words, his  _ “Never,” _ sounding like a vow, makes something warm unfurl in Stiles’ chest as they wait for the elevator to arrive. 

They don’t have to wait long for the doors to slide open with a soft ding, and Stiles untangles their fingers as he steps into the elevator. Peter’s eyes snap to his as he bares his teeth in a silent snarl, but when all Stiles does is raise an eyebrow, Peter seems to realize what he’s doing. Seeing  _ Peter Hale _ blush is... fantastic. Ten out of ten. Stiles  _ definitely _ recommends. 

He giggles to himself as Peter types in an 8-digit code (that Stiles memories immediately) into a keyboard on the elevator’s panel. Once he’s done a little light turns from red to green, and Peter presses the twenty-third floor before turning to face him head-on. 

Stiles reaches out and hooks his fingers into Peter’s belt loops before he tugs him in. His heart is racing so loudly it’s echoing in his ears and he knows that Peter can hear it, but... he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because everything Peter has done since he first realized Stiles was hurt has been to make him feel safe. Peter took away his pain, made sure Gerard was gone, and has now brought him back to his den to keep him safe. 

He doesn’t care, and he reels Peter in until their hips are pressing together and Stiles leans up to brush his lips against Peter’s cheek, resting the curve of his cupid’s bow against the edge of Peter’s cheekbone. Stiles breathes him in, taking a long, deep breath of something musky but fresh, and makes a little noise of pleasure when Peter wraps his arms around him to keep him close. 

Smiling, Stiles trails his lips down Peter’s face, pressing small, smooching kisses to his jaw, before he finally leans in to rest his forehead against Peter’s collar. Peter’s shirt is soft under his forehead and Stiles nuzzles at his throat, making another pleased noise when Peter starts up a low, rumbling type of growl that really sounds more like purring than anything else. 

“Thank you,” Stiles breathes against his skin, slipping his hands up under Peter’s shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. 

The contact earns him a louder growl, and Stiles giggles stupidly. 

“Anything, darling,” Peter promises and Stiles... 

Stiles believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually have the next chapter completely written! i just need to edit it, and then i'll be posting it mid-way through December :) subscribe so that you don't miss it, or any future chapters that i might decide to write (i already have a fun for a fifth chapter)!!! 
> 
> comments keep me going, so if you want to see more of this fic, let me know what you liked about this chapter and what you might like to see from here! 
> 
> come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://lavender-lotion.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Chapter 4

It only takes a few more seconds for the elevator to ding, and Stiles untangles himself from Peter’s arms reluctantly. Peter’s  _ so warm _ that he makes the perfect cuddling partner, and Stiles is already imagining how blissful it’ll feel to snuggle up to him in a bed. Then he realizes he’s picturing himself sleeping with Peter and he blushes darkly, spins on his heel, and marches out of the elevator. 

That is  _ not _ a conversation he wants to have in the middle of the hallway. 

There’re only a few other doors along the long hall, and he lets Peter lead him to the furthest one. Stiles raises an eyebrow when all Peter does is pull out a key, but then he pulls out two more keys, all on different key rings, to unlock the three locks on the door. Peter pushes the door open and holds his arm out, giving a curt,  _ “After you,” _ that gets him an eye roll.

As he steps through the doorway, Stiles feels a... pressure wash over him. Once he has both feet firmly planted inside the apartment, his ears pop as the pressure changes. He looks back, startled, but Peter steps through the entryway easily and doesn’t react in any way to whatever it was that Stiles just felt. 

Were... were those the wards? 

“Keycode. Three different keys. The wards you mentioned.” Stiles hums as he looks around the apartment. It’s... a lot homier than Stiles has been expecting. 

“I told you it was safe,” Peter remarks, closing the door behind him and locking all three locks. Stiles feels the pressure change again, and wonders if the wards just did something. 

And why the hell he can feel them. 

Uh. More for the “To Talk About Later” list. 

“I better get a full tour in the morning, rich-wolf,” Stiles teases, laughing out loud when Peter flashes him a fang and mock-growls at him. 

“All the better to spoil you with, darling boy,” Peter teases right back, pulling another, louder laugh from Stiles’ throat. “The bathroom is this way.”

“Oh yay,” Stiles murmurs, trailing behind Peter and feeling kind of bereft of Peter’s touch. Peter leads him through a bedroom that Stiles doesn’t pay attention to and through a second doorway without stopping, and Stiles, whose eyes are kind of glued to Peter’s ass, doesn’t stop either. Until... “Oh.  _ Whoa.” _

Stiles looks around the bathroom in awe, not knowing where the hell he should look. The floors are a simple white marble, but there're lines of gold running through the tile that shine in the light. To the right of the door is a long, double sink vanity in a clean, shining white, with a similar countertop to the floor only with more gold running through the marble. It matches the faucets and the pretty detailing surrounding the  _ huge _ mirror, and the door handles to the marbled drawers.

Opposite of that, to the left of the door, are deep, built-in shelves holding a whole bunch of towels that look stupidly soft. The bottom two shelves are filled with bath products (there’s even a glass bowl filled with bath bombs, oh my god) to obviously be used in the stupidly big clawfoot tub next to the shelves. More gold faucets, a thick edge littered with candles, and a bathmat that looks like actual fur. 

Opposite of  _ that _ is a big standing shower encased in glass that could  _ definitely _ fit two people. Which is something Stiles  _ does not think about, _ not even when Peter looks at him with a stupidly sexy smirk. 

“Peter your bathroom is like the size of my bedroom.”

“Your bedroom is a little larger,” Peter comments, moving to the sink and washing his hands thoroughly. 

“Peter...” Stiles starts, then trails off as he tries to find the words he needs, because  _ oh my god, what,  _ “how do you know how big my bedroom is?”

Peter shuts off the tap and dries his hands on a hand towel hanging next to the vanity before turning around with a raised eyebrow. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Fair point,” Stiles relents, watching Peter closely as he crosses the space between them. 

There’s a worried furrow across his brow, like the one Stiles had smoothed out earlier. Stiles wants to reach out, draw Peter close again, and it scares him. He’s not afraid of Peter, not at all, but he’s afraid of how badly he wants him, how good it feels when he’s close. Stiles does his best to ignore it, filing it away into the “To Talk About Later” thought folder, and focuses back on Peter’s little frown. 

Before he even gets the chance to reach out, Peter is firmly demanding, “Arms up,” and Stiles obeys on instinct. 

“Good boy,” Peter purrs, in a way that makes Stiles flush darkly as arousal stirs in his belly. Uh. Oh, gosh. He’s almost thankful that Peter  _ pulls his shirt over his head _ since it hides his face, but when he realizes what’s going on, he squeaks.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks sharply, wrapping his arms around his stomach and gritting his teeth against the  _ nausea _ that rises up into his throat at the thought of Peter seeing him shirtless. 

Nothing that’s happened tonight makes any sense and even though Stiles  _ knows _ why it’s all happening, it suddenly feels overwhelming. All of his answered questions are piling up and swirling around his head, and he can’t get down a deep breath. Peter, who is all werewolf-y perfect and stupidly muscled, is staring at him. Peter, who is stronger, and older, and should  _ not _ care about Stiles at all, especially not enough for Peter to take him to his den at the urging of his wolf, is looking at Stiles, who’s standing in front of him shirtless.

Stiles, who is... who’s sixteen and skinny. He’s pale and he doesn’t  _ have _ muscle mass, like, at all. He runs, sure, but he isn’t strong and lean like Danny is, he’s just. He’s just Stiles, who flails around and talks too much, who makes dumb jokes to try to get people’s attention, who’s not  _ ugly, _ he doesn’t think, but who sure as hell isn’t attractive like any of the other werewolves he knows. 

He’s just  _ human. H _ e’s bloodied and bruised and fucking  _ broken, _ and Peter is staring at him with shining eyes and seeing  _ too much. _ It’s  _ all _ too much, and the next time Stiles tries to take a breath he chokes on it and starts coughing. Coughing  _ hurts, _ and suddenly the pain explodes behind his eyes lids and it’s all so much,  _ too much,  _ and he can’t, he can’t—

“Stiles, look at me,” Peter says, quiet but firm, and Stiles does his best to force his eyes open. But looking at Peter doesn’t make anything better. Not when all he can see is Peter’s thick neck and the smooth slope of his muscled shoulder, which is, like, ridiculously attractive for a fucking  _ shoulder, _ and Stiles whimpers, helplessly. 

“Sweetheart, eyes on me, c’mon,” Peter murmurs quietly, and then his hands frame Stiles’ face. 

It’s as if all of his attention zeroes in on the feeling of Peter’s hands on him, and suddenly there’s nothing else that matters. Stiles manages a deep breath that fills his lungs, and as Peter holds him, the pain wracking his frame slowly drains away. His next breath is even easier now that his chest doesn’t hurt.

Peter’s thumb catches on Stiles’ bottom lip, smooth and warm, and his breath hitches. 

“Whatever it is you are thinking: stop it,” Peter tells him, his eyes so bright Stiles has to focus on the handsome slope of his nose instead. 

“Peter,” Stiles mutters weakly, wrapping his hands tightly around the hem of Peter’s shirt and tugging on it as something that sounds like a whine slips past his throat. “I don’t...”

“I am sorry I took off your shirt without asking, darling.” Peter’s voice cracks on the endearment, and when Stiles back up into his eyes, they’re pained. “But I  _ need _ to make sure you are alright. I need to see, with my own eyes, that you don’t need a hospital.” 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says weakly, but when Peter raises an eyebrow at him, he snaps his teeth closed. 

“I shouldn’t have taken off your shirt like that. But...” Peter cuts himself off with a noise that’s pure wolf, and around fangs, he says, “I need to know you’re okay.”

“You can look,” Stiles whispers, feeling foolish when he admits, “I’m just worried you won’t like what you see. That you’ll be... disappointed.”

Peter’s entire face changes. The worried tension that had been making his expression hard  _ melts, _ and what’s left is the softest look that Stiles has ever seen. When Peter speaks, Stiles believes every word. “Darling, you are absolutely gorgeous. Nothing about you could  _ ever _ disappoint me.” 

“I’m... I’m a mess,” Stiles whispers. He knows it’s true. He’d bandaged himself up in the bathroom after he’d finally stumbled home. His skin is littered with cuts and bruises and it’s all... it’s all just so human. 

Peter growls so loudly that Stiles  _ feels _ it shake through him, and he reaches out to cup Peter’s throat with his hands, shuffling closer until their toes are touching. “Shh, protective-wolf.”

“What that monster did to you doesn’t diminish how attractive you are,” Peter vows, words sure. “You are a brilliant, beautiful boy and you are  _ mine.” _

“Peter,” Stiles whispers, tilting his head up and kissing Peter’s jaw in an act of bravery. Warm hands grab his hips gently before they slide around his sides and then span over the small of his back. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter slurs, and the next breath he takes rumbles with a growl. “I am trying to calm down.”

Stiles makes a little noise and nods his head. He doesn’t pull himself away. Instead, he sweeps his palms across Peter’s shoulders, back and forth, and dots the line of his jaw with little kisses until Peter isn’t growling. He’s still breathing deeply, but that’s a definite improvement, so Stiles takes a little step back. 

“Gerard can’t hurt me again.  _ You _ made sure of that, remember?” Stiles runs his hands down Peter’s arms to squeeze the man’s wrists, then pulls Peter’s arms from behind him. “I’m okay. You can look, as long as you’ll still think I’m pretty.”

This time Peter’s growl is playful, and his eyes are dimmed back to their pretty, human blue. Stiles smiles up at him shakily, but does his best to look unaffected. He still doesn’t want Peter looking at him. But... Peter pretty much just laid to rest every uncertainty that Stiles has had with one simple word, even if he didn’t realize it. 

As Stiles steps back and holds his arms at his sides, he realizes he  _ wants _ to be Peter’s. There is still a lot he doesn’t know, a lot they’re going to have to talk about, but as Peter’s hands gently sweep across his skin, soft and oh so warm, draining pain as they go, Stiles realizes it’s okay. It’s  _ okay _ that there’s a lot he doesn’t know. Because he does know that Peter cares about him. That he cares about Peter. That Peter is  _ sinfully _ hot, and that Peter thinks he’s beautiful. That Peter is rich, that Peter is going to help him tell his dad about the supernatural, that Peter is going to keep him safe. 

He might not know it all, but he knows enough. And maybe what he does know matters more than what he doesn’t, anyway. 

Stiles is getting used to Peter’s hands on him, earlier indecision melted away by Peter’s sure words. Peter is carefully checking him over, feeling across his ribs and over his sides. His eyes are growing heavy, lulled by Peter’s warmth. He’s  _ so _ tired, more tired than he knows how to handle, and his eyes are just starting to flutter when Peter steps back and—

Drops to his knees. 

“Oh my God, what are you doing?” Stiles yells, throwing his hands out and smacking Peter in the face when he starts to  _ lean forward.  _

But then Peter laughs against his palms and kisses his fingers, sitting back on his heels. “I’m taking off your shoes, darling. What did you  _ possibly _ think I was going to do?”

“Pervy-wolf, I am  _ not _ answering that,” Stiles grumbles, voice still a little high, and Peter barks out a laugh. 

Then he takes off Stiles’ shoes and socks, which reminds him that his pinky toe is broken on his left foot. “Fuck,” he swears, only to let out a soft sigh when Peter immediately drains the pain away. “God, you seriously rock.”

All he gets is a smug “I know”, but Stiles lets it pass. Stiles can’t take his eyes off Peter’s face as his hands slowly slide up Stiles’ jean-clad legs, and he nods his head breathlessly when Peter’s hands pause at his waist and Peter looks up at him. “You can take them off,” 

“Thank you darling,” Peter tells him. Then he leans in and kisses a red cut above Stiles’ hip, and Stiles makes a noise like he’s been punched. 

They fall back into silence. Peter pulls his jeans gently down Stiles’ legs and helps him raise each foot to slip them off. Stiles resolutely ignores the fact that he’s wearing Smurf boxers, focusing instead of the feeling of Peter’s hands on him as they slowly tickle up and down his legs. 

He never could have imagined someone touching him like this. Especially not someone he liked.  _ Especially _ not someone as hot as Peter. Peter’s hands trail back up his legs and over his thighs, making him shiver.

Then, Peter’s fingers hook into the band of Stiles’ boxers, and he snaps back into the present. 

“No!” Stiles squeaks, pushing Peter back hard enough he falls on his ass. “No that’s a bad touch!” 

Peter looks up at him with an incredulous expression, looking for all the world like Stiles just kicked his puppy. 

“Nuh-uh, mister,” Stiles tells him firmly. He raises an arm and points to the door, stating, “My genitals are  _ not _ harmed. Out.”

“But—”

“No butts! Not my butt or your butt or but anything else! Stiles, shower. Peter, bedroom. Go.”

Peter growls at him, softly, but he still stands up and takes a few heavy steps out of the room. The second he’s crossed the threshold he spins on his heel and then looks at Stiles with his arms crossed. “I am waiting here and I am coming inside if anything happens to you.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he can’t pretend it doesn’t make him feel all warm inside. “Fine. Whatever. Good plan team.” Peter doesn’t move, so Stiles rolls his eyes  _ again _ and says, “Close the door, Peter.”

More grumbling, but Peter does so without any  _ actual _ protest. A soft smile curls around Stiles’ lips, and he lets out a dreamy little sigh as he thinks back over the last... God, it hasn’t even been that long since Peter found him. There’s a clock hanging above the bathtub, and Stiles realizes that Lydia only showed up a little over two hours ago. It feels like a  _ lifetime _ has passed since Peter first came up to him at the warehouse and that...

Makes Stiles realize he needs to text his dad. Shit. 

He gingerly bends over to grab his pants, ignoring the pull at his ribs and lower back. His phone is still tucked away in his back pocket. The screen’s cracked from some stupid supernatural shit from a few weeks back, and as much as Stiles wants a new one, his dad already replaced his phone a month ago. He can deal.

Stiles sends off a text to his dad, letting him know he’ll be staying at Scott’s, and then he puts his phone on silent and places it face down on the counter. He doesn’t need to think about what the hell he’s gonna do about his dad until morning, and right now he just wants to feel clean. He picks his clothes up and places them in the basket next to the vanity, slowly stripping out of his boxers and trying hard not to blush. 

He’s  _ alone. _ There is literally nothing to be nervous about. It doesn’t matter that Peter is standing just outside the room, that he’s in Peter’s house, that Peter called him  _ “mine”. _ No, none of that matters right now, not when Stiles is sore and tired. 

It only takes him a few seconds to figure out the shower faucet, and then he waits for one of the rain-water showerheads to warm up before he steps into the stall. Peter’s shower is  _ just _ as nice as it looks, and Stiles moans, a little on purpose and a little just because the warm water feels  _ amazing, _ when he steps in. 

He lets himself soak in the warm water for a few minutes before he gets moving. He doesn’t take his time—Stiles just wants to sleep. No matter what happens with their talk, he knows for certain that tomorrow is going to be one hell of a day and he’s ready to sleep for a week. Peter has a collection of bottles on shelves built into the wall, and Stiles picks up each item carefully, reading the label before he decides whether or not he should use it. 

He’s happy that nothing is overly scented, and the body wash claims to be anti-bacterial. Showering  _ stings,  _ and as the last of the dirt and blood that’s been covering Stiles washes down the drain, he almost wishes he’d let Peter join him just so he could drain the pain away. 

When he’s finally done, he rests his forehead against the cool tile and takes several deep breaths. They feel good, and the warm air settles deep in his lungs. Stiles honestly isn’t sure where he finds the strength to push himself off the shower’s wall, but he manages to steady himself on his feet after a moment of dizziness. 

_ Fuck. _ He’s so tired. 

Thankfully the door doesn’t open when he shuts off the water. The whole time he walks over to the towels, he’s worried that Peter is going to burst into the bathroom. The way that Peter so obviously cares for him makes something fragile and hopeful bloom to life in his chest, and as he gently pats himself dry, he loses himself in how  _ good _ it feels to know that someone is willing to take such care of him. 

Stiles ties his towel around his waist snugly and doesn’t look at himself in the mirror. He  _ knows _ he looks bad and... he doesn’t want to see it again. Stiles doesn’t even have the door open all the way when Peter is suddenly crowding into him. Instead of letting Peter get close, however, Stiles places a hand to the centre of his chest and looks the wolf dead in the eye. “You are not getting anywhere near me until you’re clean.”

Peter’s eyes flash electric blue and he bares his fangs, growling softly. At this point, all Stiles does is roll his eyes. “The faster you shower the faster you can get me into bed, big bad.”

Those seem to be the magic words. Stiles giggles as Peter rushes past him and starts stripping, leaving the bathroom door open. Stiles absolutely ignores it and  _ does not _ turn around to watch, not even when he hears what can  _ only _ be a pair of jeans drop onto the floor. Instead, he and his towel softly patter across Peter’s bedroom, looking around with wide eyes. The door they walked in from is to their right, and there’s another door directly ahead of him. 

When he pushes it open, Stiles snorts loudly. “I should  _ not _ be surprised your closet is the size of  _ my _ bathroom,” he says, knowing Peter will be able to hear him easily. 

There are... a lot of clothes.  _ A lot _ of clothes. Holy shit. The first thing that catches Stiles’ attention is the wall-length shelf of shoes. Running shoes. Dress shoes. Sparkly dress shoes. Stiles has two pairs of ratty converse and a beat-up pair of Nikes he uses to run in, and the cleats he needs for lacrosse. Stiles doesn’t even want to  _ count _ the number of shoes that Peter has. 

Stiles: focus. He needs underwear. If he’s going to sleep and sleep well, then he needs to wear something he’ll actually be able to sleep in. He  _ hates  _ sleeping in pants and since he also doesn’t want to sleep naked, he’s gonna have to put something on. 

_ If I was a rich werewolf, where would I keep my underwear? _ Stiles thinks, crossing the room to the cutout that has a bunch of hanging undershirts with a set of drawers beneath them. He opens the first drawer and grins when he’s immediately successful—he’s literally a genius—and then he almost faints when he actually  _ looks _ at Peter’s underwear. 

There are. So many pairs. So many fancy pairs. Stiles feels a flush take over his cheeks as he imagines Peter wearing the few jockstraps that are lined up separately to the briefs, letting his fingers trail over the mirage of colours as he swallows heavily. He can still hear the shower running, but he doesn’t think Peter is going to give him a lot of time, so with a determined breath, he pushes aside  _ all _ the arousal clouding his thoughts and grabs a black pair of briefs. 

Well, they fit well enough. Stiles turns around in a circle, keeping his towel in hand so it doesn’t sit on the floor. There’s a basket beside the door, so Stiles tosses the towel in and cheers quietly when he makes the shot. He turns back to the row of undershirts, figuring they look soft enough, before he slowly pads over to the basket. 

Stiles picks his towel off the top of the clothes pile and rests it against the edge. His heart is racing something fierce, slamming against his ribs as he starts rifling through the basket of presumably dirty clothes. 

There’s an undershirt that only looks a little worn, not as wrinkled as the rest, and Stiles lifts it to his face. Something warm and guilty climbs up from his belly, but it’s quickly melting away when the scent of _ Peter _ floods his nostrils. Almost without thinking about it, Stiles carefully puts the shirt on before dropping the towel back into the basket. It’s loose on him, especially in the body, and long enough that it covers Stiles’ bum but makes it  _ very _ obvious he’s not wearing anything but underwear underneath. 

His cheeks heat up as he looks down at himself, though a little smile pulls at his lips as he imagines Peter’s reaction. The way that Peter had looked at him in the bathroom... God, warm arousal floods his core as he thinks about it. Stiles twists his fingers into the hem of the shirt as his breathing picks up, closing his eyes as he remembers Peter  _ on his knees. _

The soft patter of the shower disappearing startles him out of his fantasy, and he quickly pushes himself from Peter’s closet. Then he realizes he doesn’t actually know where to go and stands in the centre of his bedroom, taking a second to look around. Peter has a  _ huge _ bed, draped in various greys. Two chrome end tables sit at either side, and they each have a fancy looking lamp on them. One of them is turned on, adding more light to what the  _ chandelier _ above him gives off. 

Before Stiles can start looking at what Peter has on the stand opposite the bed (other than a  _ huge _ TV), he hears Peter clear his throat and he turns to look at the wolf, standing in the bathroom doorway. 

Peter comes out in a low riding pair of sweatpants and nothing else, a few water droplets still sliding down his chest. Stiles can’t help the way his eyes track their path, eyes zeroing in on the little line of hair under Peter’s belly button that, from what Stiles can already see, fills out into a fuller bush. 

Stiles blushes darkly, but before he can even process the fact that he’s staring at the outline of Peter’s dick in grey sweatpants, Peter’s on him. He makes a  _ stupid _ noise when Peter’s hands land on his waist, slipping under his shift to press at Stiles’ sides. The pain that he’s been desperately trying to ignore drains away into nothing, and Stiles slumps right into Peter’s chest. 

Peter, who absolutely does  _ not _ seem to mind the closeness, if the way he’s all but bowing around Stiles is anything to go by. Stiles lays his own arms atop Peter’s, resting the tips of his fingers on Peter’s bare shoulders. God, he’s so  _ warm, _ and his heat seeps right into Stiles’ bones. 

Then, Peter starts to growl. 

“Peter?” Stiles asks softly, fingers digging into Peter’s skin as he tries to figure out what happened to make Peter upset. 

_ “You’re in my clothes,” _ Peter growls, slurred around his fangs, breath hot where he’s panting against Stiles’ throat. “You smell like me. Like  _ mine.” _

Stiles has no idea what an appropriate answer to that is, so he just moans and fists his hands into Peter’s hair. It’s probably correct, he thinks, when Peter’s hands drift down over his ass and then grab his upper thighs in order to  _ lift him up. _

“Peter!” Stiles squeaks, wrapping his legs around Peter’s waist hurriedly. 

And then he can’t really think about anything else at  _ all, _ because Peter’s hands are gripping his thighs, his  _ ass, _ really, with how high they are, and his face is still planted in Stiles’ neck, breathing hot and wet over his collar and making his shiver. Stiles’ dick, getting more and more fucking interesting, is pressed  _ really _ firmly against Peter’s belly, which is all solid and muscly and—

“Oh my god, Peter,” Stiles groans, his heart racing and his dick hard and his mind nothing but literal mush.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m—” Peter moans loudly, teeth scratching against Stiles’ throat, and then he’s leaning down and presses Stiles into his bed before he’s abruptly  _ gone, _ moving back so fast Stiles can’t even reach out for him. “A minute,” Peter gasps roughly, standing tall and tense and fisting his hands tightly. “Just give me a minute.” 

Stiles can’t answer, too busy gasping for air as his heart tries to find something that’s actually a normal rhythm. His hands are shaking as they fall back to bed and his legs feel like jelly as they flop onto Peter’s  _ very _ soft mattress, holy shit. Stiles doesn’t move until he catches his breath, and then he pushes himself up on his elbows to see Peter. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” 

Peter barks out a laugh and says, “I just attacked you and you’re asking me if  _ I’m _ okay?”

Stiles looks down at his perfectly fine—well, not any  _ worse _ body—and gives Peter an unimpressed look. “You didn’t attack me, Peter.” Peter rolls his eyes and snarls at him, so softer, Stiles asks, “Hey, it’s okay. Can you tell me what happened?”

“My wolf would really like to lick your wounds clean and it isn’t understanding why it can’t,” Peter tells him tersely, eyes shining blue and words slurred. “I am not a pup but I haven’t been alive for very long. My control is... looser than I thought it was, and I apologize.”

Stiles blinks. His mind tries to wrap itself around what that means, but he’s getting a 404 error. Page does not exist. Peter... saw him in his shirt and  _ lost control? _ Because of  _ Stiles? _ That’s... fuck, his half-chub chubs itself right back, and Peter growls again, though this time he sounds pained. 

“I know we have a lot to talk about tomorrow but... FYI, you do not need to apologize for trying to fuck me.”

Peter groans again, and Stiles giggles a little hysterically. 

“Stiles...”

“You stopped before things could go too far. You’ve listened to everything I’ve asked. I... it’s actually kinda really awesome that you’re having such a hard time controlling yourself.”

_ “Awesome?” _

Stiles shrugs, and he knows his smile is forced. “It means you’re actually attracted to me and not lying for a prank.”

Because Stiles is watching him, he sees the way Peter’s face contorts into something close to anger, before smoothing out into an expression that hurts Stiles’ heart. What can he say? High school fucking sucks. 

“Sweetheart, you will never have to worry about something like that again.”

Stiles grins and says, “I know,” before holding out his hand and asking, “Now will you come back? I wanna get my cuddle on then pass the fuck out for a week.”

Peter listens, just like he has all night. He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, and as he moves forward, Stiles crawls around Peter’s bed until he’s all nestled in under the covers. He rolls around a little under Peter’s electric gaze, giggling when Peter mock-growls at him, playful and light. 

Wow. Can he  _ really _ identify Peter’s  _ growl _ types?

When Stiles lifts up the edge of the sheet, Peter doesn’t wait any longer. He slides into the bed and doesn’t stop until he’s close enough to pull Stiles into his arms. He goes willingly, happily, wiggling close until he has Peter on his back with Stiles half-sprawled on top of him. Stiles has  _ never _ shared a bed with someone like this, but there’s something about being with Peter that makes everything  _ so easy. _

He settles his head on Peter’s chest. Tangles their legs together. Stiles doesn’t know where he starts and where Peter ends and it’s  _ perfect. _

Peter kisses his forehead, facial hair tickling, and whispers, “Sweet dreams, darling. I will keep you safe.”

“I know,” Stiles whispers, pressing a kiss to Peter’s heart. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND that’s it for 2020! 
> 
> Thank you so much for commenting, kudo’ing, bookmarking and just... reading this fic. I never expected the response on the little first chapter, something that was supposed to just be a standalone chapter!
> 
> And with that said: let me know what you’ve liked about this fic AND what you still want to see happen! I definitely have some plans for next year, BUT: comments keep me going, and will get this an update even faster!
> 
> I am keeping this marked as complete, but there IS a chance for more! Subscribe if you wanna keep up with it :D


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